Misery does not prevent Contentment
by OmNomNommingOnSouls
Summary: Model!Arthur. Human AU. A brief drabble of sour living and soothing ends. - Any feedback is appreciated, especially constructive criticism-


Human AU - Model!Arthur. [FrUK]

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I just wanted to do some model!arthur fic and it turned a little sour.

It's a little jumbled, I'm pretty sure this isn't how the mechanics of modelling works too.

I may write more of the verse, from a less obscure pov. anyway hope you enjoy.

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Arthur is not overly fond with how he lives. Not that he complains, he lives pretty damn well. He enjoys the company of his dear ferret, a sly little lady by the name of Buttercup, in a rather nice semi-detached house. He can afford better, far better, but he enjoys the quaintness of it from the outside. He has the luxuries he can afford, a good PC for his leisure, a small study for his spare time. His bedroom's in the attic, because he can afford to pay for its decoration, its refitting, all the insulation in the damn world and wonderful oak furnishings.

He is not overly fond with how he lives because he is remembered by his appearance, not by personality or speech. He is an black and white photo in half a dozen magazines, glossy and expensive. He's a mannequin for Haute Couture and bespoke suits, the price tags all arranged and going on in lines of digits that make him sigh. They're a necklace about his throat, the sheer weight of them turning them into a noose and it burns. He's sometimes without the suit, underwear on occasion because that damned American photographer knows he sells it far better, all lithe, pale muscle (too thin too thin too thin but know one notices or cares) and the bright colours of his ink, art _he_ designed (because that is what he wanted to be, he wanted to draw on peoples' skin, make their body canvases of their choice) planned and had done through the empty pockets of his salary, part time job at Clarks prior to his University years. The American, Jones, is his friend and colleague, nothing more than that, because he's got what he's wanted, a camera in his hands and the well payed fortune of working with Kirkland, all booked out for people's viewing pleasure, stripped and clothed week after week after-

He fears the London Underground, because when he's on the train his signature strip of blond hair, bleached at the tips with darker wheat roots with the remainder of his scalp shaved, is noticed regularly, mostly by women (sometimes by men, a variety of people read through fashion magazines and watch TV, but mostly women nonetheless) and he often forces himself into loose fitting t-shirts and tasteless hoodies just to cover up. The images on all of those magazines and books, with thousands, hundreds of thousands of eyes seeing and gazing at him make him terribly self conscious out of his 'model' persona, muted emotions and a sharp face darkened with all kinds of makeup, just to make the contrast and the jut of his bones bolder. A vile artistic statement.

He needs the London Underground because it is the fastest way to Camden Market, a place where he is harder to spot amongst tourists and people who wear similar appearances. He eyes the tattoo parlours, men holding signs pointing in their directions. The Briton shudders at the thought. Because he wants it so badly. He leaves Camden after a few ours of pointless meandering, with a belly full of food that he couldn't eat somewhere nearer home.

A few days later he's involved in an incident, a local pub. It's nothing serious, drunken banter turned to drunken brawl, a broken nose and a dislocated something-or-other but it hits the tabloid newspapers and several better published ones like a punch to the gut. Scandal, people talk about him, he hears it under his hats, his hoods his scarves, under the layers that hides who he is. It doesn't waver on his career, Jones is still his photographer, the photos remain the same. Though there's shame written all over Arthur's body. His debauched temple grows more empty, it thins down even more. People start to notice, they label him as trash, says that this is what the industry does to society. They don't question themselves, that it was society that pried into a local incident. That it was one of them that took photos on their iphone-android-thing and published it over the internet. They don't ask how he feels. Because he's just an image after all, the monochrome, glossy image selling them their high end products and fashions. He's just the pliable mannequin.

But...that's not bad. He's able to come home to his dearest ferret, and his even dearer _'petit ami'_ in their tongue. He's able to sit on the sofa after an awful day of sharing his body with the world, and share it later that evening with the man who keeps him sane day after damn day. He helps cook and gets Arthur eating even if he doesn't feel up to it, or that he's concerned about his image, that more labels, verbal ones, will add to the price tag noose already so tight, too tight-

Francis Bonnefoy, the '_petit ami_' is the one to cut the noose after a long week, a long season, the cycle of nameless photographs. He lives in Arthur's house, shares his bedroom, electricity, water, computer, ferret, television and everything else. He's the one who shares Arthur's smile and joy, because that is not something for society, for the public to have. It is in the photographs, all colour, in their home, the cheesy ones with Arthur in some woollen self-knitted jumper, Francis in one to match. A childhood photo of Arthur's first proper snowy day in England, along with his first broken bone after slipping on the ice face first and needing a ridiculous bandage over his nose for ages. A snapshot by Arthur, it's slightly blurred but it is a lovely view of Francis cooking from behind, in an embarrassing mess where the food has escaped and there is a comical amount of water leaking everywhere from a pot. There's school photos, Arthur with braces and Francis with freckles and a cheeky grin, smug to this day.

(There is an empty space in Arthur's study, where one day, in one of their cliché romantic dinners, Francis will have asked his friend Feliciano to sneak in a quick picture during a dinner. The one where Arthur proposes and it stays a quiet affair in the years to come.

But that's the future, and for now there is the contentment of their private intimacies staying that way, and Francis making Arthur's cycle that much easier.)


End file.
